


The Wolves Will Prowl

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domeric Bolton Lives, F/F, Jon goes south, M/M, Multi, Robb Stark Has a Twin, Skinchanging, Up for Adoption, War of the Five Kings, Warging, direwolves, discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24737929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: Another Stark, Another Bolton, A different War of the Five Kings————————Chapter 4 is a one-shot/summary of the plot.
Relationships: Domeric Bolton/Original Female Characters
Comments: 12
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! 
> 
> Soooo I’m writing ‘And Now Their Watch Begins’ and I, along with everyone else, fell in love with my Domeric Bolton. So I decided to give him his own fic! He’s an adorable, ruthless, ambitious creep. Pretty much the “I’m an asshole to everyone but the people I love” trope. Which is my favorite trope.
> 
> I made a new Stark character because a) I wanted conflict with Robb so I couldn’t replace him completely and b) I’m honestly kind of sick writing as Sansa
> 
> Lyra (hopefully) isn’t a Mary Sue. I genuinely tried to make a well rounded original character with her own faults and strengths. She is not a magical swordswoman.
> 
> Enjoy!

Night reaches Domeric Bolton far too quickly for his liking. He pulls his dappled stallion to a slow halt. He regards the rocky green plains to his left and the sparse trees to his right. It isn’t very cold, and he’s only at the edge of the forest, but he isn’t one to tempt fate. The full moon is smiling down at him in her bed of clouds; the wolves will prowl tonight.

He clicks his tongue to urge Rhae on. He hasn’t been home in nearly six years. It’s rather embarrassing to have forgotten the landscape of his homeland, but he’s almost positive that the stone outcropping is thicker further on.

“If not, we can always go into the woods,” he muses aloud.

Thankfully, his memories prove correct. The rocks grow into natural roofless huts and stable, some jutting out of the ground and others into the hills. He wonders, vaguely, if they are the long gone remnants of the Northern Mountains or some other formation lost to time like the giants of old.

He shakes himself out of his fanciful thoughts. He’s been too long without sleep. He has traveled three days and two nights without a break, too excited to rest. The Vale is a wonderful place, but it’s not home. It is not the North.

Rhae smells the fire before Dom sees it. Orange light flickers between a window of rocks. He hesitates before smiling broadly. This is the North. A maiden could walk down the Kingsroad naked and remain untouched. A fact all the more true as close to Stark territory as he is. There are no mountain men to fear. Any wildling with sense would travel through the trees. They certainly wouldn’t light a campfire.

Domeric doesn’t bother to hide his approach. There’s one horse tied, a muscled chestnut stallion packed for a journey. The only weapon is a sturdy hunting bow tied to the saddle. Probably a young lord testing his skills or a well-off hunter.

“Good evening,” Domeric announces. “Mind if I join you? I have fruit to share.”

A small figure shifts in the shadows to his right.

“Alright,” it says.

Domeric‘s surprise is too sudden to mask. He finishes securing Rhae’s rope, then makes a point of removing his sword belt before taking a seat across the fire in slow, steady movements.

“Forgive me,” he says. “It has been many years since I have beenhome. It seems I’ve forgotten that northern women are made of stronger mettle than their southern counterparts.”

The girl studies him. She’s pretty, even caught in the awkward stage between girl and woman. She might even be beautiful in kinder circumstances. As it is, her hair is too dull and her brows too thick. There’s something familiar about her, though. The eyes maybe. He would remember that bright of a blue.

“Got any oranges?” She asks.

He smiles. “Just apples and berries. No citrus.”

She makes a noncommittal sound, but trades food sacks all the same. Hers is made of a leather as fine as his own and stuffed with a variety of bread and cheese. Interesting. He picks out a dark loaf before tossing her bag back.

He looks her over again. Her clothes fit oddly, but they’re tailored and made of rich fabric. Is she a bandit? A murderer and thief? A wildling?

She unsheathes a dagger to cut into her apple. The hilt is unadorned, but elaborately designed. Her boots are sturdy, worn, and well fitting. Odd. How very odd. 

“Where are you headed?” He asks.

“The Last Hearth, I think.”

Her northern brogue is thick, but it isn’t accented in the way that a wildling’s is.

“You think?”

She shrugs daintily. “I wanted to see the Wall, but I’ll settle for that far north.”

“I’m on my way to the Dreadfort. We could travel together.”

She freezes, her blue eyes darting back to him. They linger on his face then flash to his horse. There’s something so familiar about her. Could it be the nose? It’s quite long, but it suits her features. And her lashes are pale for hair so dark.

“You’re Domeric Bolton.”

He smiles lazily. “What gave it away?”

“The eyes.”

“Do they frighten you?”

She considers him some more. Domeric wonders what she sees. Most girls in the Vale say he would be handsome if it weren’t for his eyes. They succumb to pretty songs and flattering words, but he can never let himself forget their trepidation. If bedding or kissing a savage Northman is a novelty for them, a Bolton is a thrill. They search his naked flesh for telling scars, for evidence of flaying. As if he would do it to himself. Fools. He was taught on pigs and peasants.

Finally, the girl just shrugs.

“Why have you come back?” She asks.

Domeric sighs, twisting around for his wine skin. He takes a long swig as he considers his options. He decides on the truth.

“It’s recently came to my attention that my father has a bastard. I’ve always wanted a sibling, you see. I only ever had my father and my aunt growing up and they aren’t the warmest of figures. He’s not too much younger than I am. Your age, maybe. I figured the most he can do is tell me to fuck off.”

“Bastards have an unworthy reputation,” she says, gazing into the small fire. Is that it, then? Is she a lord’s baseborn daughter?

They watch the flames dance, listen to the horses snort and the bugs chirp. He waits until she is relaxed before speaking.

“Why did you run away?” He asks.

She opens her mouth, closes it, and glances at her horse.

“Fine beast, he is. I thought you might have murdered a young lord, but your lashes gave you away.”

“What?!”

“They’re golden. You’ve dyed your hair. And your brows, by the look of it.”

She scowls and rubs at them. “They do look awful.”

“Absolutely ridiculous.” He hesitates before continuing. “Your boots and dagger give you away as well. Your food, too. Only a lord’s keep has that many kinds of bread.”

She slams her head back against the rocky wall, frowning up at clouds. “I’m not running away. Not really. If I were going to do that, I’d go to Dorne.”

He mulls it over. It’s smart. Dorne is the only place a woman has even the possibility of making a name for herself. Without whoring, anyway. Even then it’s unlikely.

“So what is this? An act of rebellion?”

“I needed to get out.”

“Come, now. I told you my truths. You owe me yours.”

She furrows her awful brows and purses. Eventually, she takes a deep breath and sits up straight, her blue eyes glinting in the fire.

“You know that feeling, the way you feel when your horse is at full speed and the wind cuts at your face and it’s just you and the sky and the hills? They want to take it away. They’re sending me south. I like dancing and dresses and songs, but I like riding and hunting too. They’d never let me do it down there. I wouldn’t even have a Heart Tree.”

Melancholy rushes through him, tempered by pity. He knows that feeling. He knows it all too well. He would never let anyone take it from him. He’d kill them all before they took it.

She nods at whatever she sees in his expression. “This is a warning. This is me showing them that I can run away. That I will. It’s not that I don’t want to marry. I don’t mind at all. I’d just rather stay North.”

“How old are you?”

“Three and ten.”

He narrows his eyes in thought.

“Are you Alys Karstark?”

She stills.

“That’s a no, then. There’s a Manderly girl your age, but they worship the Seven. You’re far too small to be an Umber and too pretty to be a Glover. That only-“

Oh, fuck. No. No, no, no. This can not be happening.

Domeric scurries to his feet, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. She groans and buries her head in her hands.

“You’re one of the Stark girls!” He cries.

Her shoulders heave with a sigh.

“Are you fucking serious?” He hisses, crossing the fire. She glares up at him. “If they find you with me they’ll have my head!”

“Well that won’t be a problem, will it? Because you’re not going to be found with me,” she snaps.

She rises and tries to shoulder past him, but he grabs her arm. It’s surprisingly hard with muscle. Then again, there is the bow in her saddle and she did say she likes hunting.

“Oh no, my lady. I’m not letting you out of my sight. We’re going south first thing-“

“No! Absolutely not! I was doing well before-“

“I. Don’t. Care.”

He drags her over to Rhae, where he digs around in his saddle bags. Eventually, he finds a bit of rope and uses it to connect their wrists. She tries to break away, but Domeric is seven and ten, knighted and blooded in battle. A skinny little girl is no match for him.

She throws herself onto her bedroll, forcing him to sit beside her. She turns her face from him childishly.

“What in the hells were you thinking?! Do you know what the wildlings would do if they got-“

“I can outrun a wildling,” she scoffs.

“And what about my father?” He asks harshly. “Do you think you could outrun the Leech Lord? He wouldn’t flay you. Not with you so young and fertile.”

She pales and jerks back from him.

“They’re looking for me,” she says, her voice wavering.

He rolls his eyes. ”Don’t worry, Stark. I’ve no want of a new mother.”

He shuffles around, leaning against the rock and pulling his sword close. He curses as he remembers her dagger. She cries out in dismay when he confiscates it.

The bugs, startled into silence at their scuffle, slowly come back to life. Domeric scowls into the fire. A fucking Stark girl found by a Bolton. They’ll never believe him. He’ll have to be very gentle with her. They’ll take a finger for ever mark he leaves, he’s sure of it.

“Why aren’t you taking me now?” She asks.

“My horse needs the rest,” he admits. He really shouldn’t have pushed Rhae so hard, but he was just so excited to be home. What was it she said? Just the wind and the sky and the hills.

They lapse into silence once more. After a while, he realizes he doesn’t even know her name.

“Which one are you?”

“What?”

“There’s a whole litter, isn’t there? Which one are you?”

“The oldest,” she grumbles. “Girl, anyway.”

He searches his memory for their names. He’s only met them twice and the first time he was too young to remember. “Robb is the heir. His twin is named Lysa. No. That’s not right. Lyra. Robb and Lyra. Then there’s the younger sister. Sansa. There’s another one after that, but you’re too old to be her. So which is it?”

She sniffs haughtily before admitting, “Lyra.”

“Lyra Stark. Well, it won’t be that for much longer if what you’ve said is true. Who are they selling you off to?”

“It’s not official.”

He raises a brow. “This is an awful lot of trouble to protest an unofficial betrothal.”

“Well, it’s a big one.”

“A....Godsfuckingdamn you, you stupid girl! Don’t tell me I’ve tied up the future Queen of Westeros?” At her silence, he slams his head back against the outcropping. “Fucking hells!”

“I won’t let them hurt you!“

“If you had any say-“

“It’s not official,” she says, far more coldly than he thought her capable of. “It won’t be-“

“You can’t just-“

“Sansa follows the Seven. She’s prettier than I am and a proper lady besides. King Robert just wants a Stark girl. He doesn’t care which one.”

That could very well be true. Substituting daughters isn’t as unheard of as switching out sons. Women don’t have a significant impact on succession, especially a sister with three trueborn brothers and a bastard to spare. Ned Stark could certainly afford to smooth any insult. If there would even be one. Domeric has heard all sorts of tales about Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon.

“Would you take it?” She asks suddenly.

He glances down to see her staring up at the clouds again.

“The Iron Throne?”

“No. That feeling. Would you take it?”

“No,” he admits. “But I won’t marry you either. So lie down and rest. We leave at dawn.”

“I can’t. We’re tied.”

“Yes you can.”

“But it’ll pull on you.”

He huffs. “I’ll be fine, Lady Stark.”

“Lyra. And don’t be stupid. You may as well lie down too.”

Domeric argues with himself for a good twenty minutes.

Eventually, his exhaustion wins out over his honor. He bunches up their cloaks and makes her lie so that she is between him and the wall. He’ll need every advantage he can get if a bandit comes in the night. Not that he plans on sleeping at all. At least if he lies down his arm won’t be stiff in a fight.

“Would you take the Iron Throne?” She asks.

“Yes,” he replies honestly.

Slowly, Lyra Stark’s breathing evens out. He stares up at the moon and listens to the wolves howl in the distance.

He pulls her to her feet at dawn. He doesn’t untie the rope until they’re ready to climb into their saddles. He watches her warily, keeping his horse within arms reach of her reins. Neither of them speak. They traverse southwest through the hills in silence.

She makes a break for it at midday. He’s never seen anything like it, not even from Aunt Barbrey. It’s almost like she and the horse are of one mind. They glide over the plains and weave through trees and stones as if they made the earths themselves.

It’s no match for him, of course.

What began as an escape attempt turns into a game. She glances over her shoulder, never slowing, with an incredulous, contemplative expression. Then, without warning, her stallion surges east into a thicket of trees.

Domeric grins. He and Rhae have lived in the Vale. What is uneasy terrain to her is smooth sailing for them.

He regains his place at her side easily, but she doesn’t try to escape. Not yet, anyway. She tests him. Sudden turns, abrupt halts, reckless jumps. He matches her pace for pace. They do not relent until their steeds begin breathing heavily.

“No one’s ever been able to keep up before,” Lady Lyra says. Her breathing is uneven and thin scratches mar her face.

“I know.”

It isn’t arrogance. It’s commiseration. Understanding. No one has ever proved a challenge for him until now either.

Lyra drops her reins long enough to braid her hair again. In the sunlight, it’s even uglier and more obvious than it was in the campfire. The brown hue is dull, splotchy, and somehow sludgy, like it would stain his hands if he were to touch it. It probably is. She wipes her hands on her thighs before taking up the reins.

“I’ve seen mountain men with better hair,” he says.

She huffs, half laugh and half annoyance.

“It’s my own fault,” she concedes. “It was a very old brick of dye. I’ve hid it for years. I stole some when I was a little girl and I wanted to have dark hair like Father and Benjen. Of course, Mother nearly killed me when I dyed it. They had to cut most of it out. I hid the other half in Sansa’s room for months. Then, when they’d forgotten about it, I put it in the back of my wardrobe. Just in case.”

Dom smiles and relaxes into his saddle. He can imagine it, a red headed woman screaming, two little boys laughing, and a father and uncle trying to hide their smiles.

“I’ve always wanted a big family,” he admits.

She shrugs. “It isn’t too bad, I guess. You’ve got to be loud and fight for what you want, but you’ve always got someone at your back. Even Sansa, when the mood strikes.”

The rest of their journey passes in amicable conversation. They discuss horses (neither of them have yet to ride a sand steed), the other lords (Arya once headbutted Greatjon in the crotch; Dom’s first kiss was Wynafred Manderly), and the old ways (Domeric tells how he was knighted in Redfort’s godswood; Lyra talks about the wolf statues in the crypts). He isn’t surprised when she refuses to make camp. They ride far into the night, only stopping to let the horses rest.

The further southwest they go, the quieter Lyra becomes. She is torn between taking advantage of the last days of freedom and prolonging the journey as much as she can. He grants her mercy. They stop to hunt several times. She sniffs out an forgotten weirwood tree, where he plays a song while she prays. He even lets her stop to braid crowns of wildflowers, accepting his with grave solemnity.

He feeds it to Rhae when Winterfell’s silhouette appears in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

Winterfell’s embrace is just as uncomfortable as Domeric remembers it being as a boy. Something about its ancient walls and slumbering warmth calls to him. Father says it is a lingering magic left from the days of the First Men. Dom doesn’t like it. It makes him feel unworthy, like he has even more to prove to Ned Stark.

Lyra seems to disagree. Despite all of her cursing and rambling, her face slacks with relief as they pass through the gates. Domeric swings down from the saddle and passes the reins to a stableboy covered in dark freckles. 

“This is Rhae,” Domeric says, patting his speckled neck. “He is very tired and has a bit of an addiction to celery.”

“We’ll take good care of him, m’lord,” the stableboy promises.

Domeric turns, expecting the Stark girl to be sulking at his side. Instead, she’s scowling around the courtyard atop Gaven, named for a skinchanger in the War of the Wolves.

“Lady Lyra,” he chastises.

She looks down at him, then follows his gaze to the guard. Domeric had pointed out that dozens of men had to upended their lives to chase an errant Stark girl down. She had cringed and stared at the fire for nearly an hour. He’d thought her a brash, wild thing, but she has a sharp mind and a penchant for brooding.

“Sorry, Ham,” she says, sighing sadly.

She swings out of the saddle with practiced grace, landing heavily beside Dom. The guard hesitates, glaring at Domeric, before leading the stolen horse in the direction of the stables. Dom has to fight back his own sigh. What could he possibly do to a Stark maiden in the middle of Winterfell?

“Lyra!” A woman calls.

The girl takes a deep, fortifying breath. She tries to shuffle behind Dom, but he steps aside deftly. He will not be pulled into her foolishness anymore than he already has been.

A stocky redhead rounds the corner. At the sight of Dom’s companion, he drops the bow in his hand and rushes forward, nearly tackling her to the ground in his eagerness.

“‘Lo Robb,” she says, her voice muffled in his jerkin.

The Stark heir slaps his twin up the back of head without relinquishing his hold.

“You run away and that’s the first thing you say? ‘Lo Rob? The fuck, Ly? Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?”

Her retort is drowned out by the wailing of an auburn haired woman. She sobs loudly, dragging her daughter into another embrace. After a good minute of weeping, she pulls back to study Lady Lyra’s face. Her blue eyes, nearly identical to her daughter’s, sear into the girl’s very soul. She rounds on Dom soon after, obviously torn between gratitude and accusation.

The girl is once again ripped into another’s arms. Lord Stark spends several minutes looking her over for injuries before turning to Dom. His grey eyes widen.

“Domeric Bolton?”

“Lord Stark,” Dom greets, bowing low. He’ll supplicate himself as much as it takes to keep Ice from his head. Domeric is proud, yes, but he’s not a fool. Bolton’s are not loved by the Stark’s.

“You are meant to be in the Vale,” Lord Stark says, his brows furrowing deeply.

“I was on my way to visit my father when I came across Lyra,” Dom explains. If the girl hears his lie, she gives no mention of it.

Lord Stark sighs heavily. “Thank the gods it was you and not some wildling.”

“I rather thought she was the wildling, my lord.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Lady Catelyn cries.

Dom raises his chin, refusing to be cowed by a trout.

Lord Stark sighs again. Dom reckons he must sigh a lot with a wide and a daughter like that. And Lyra’s the tame one, if her stories are to be believed. Not for the first time, Domeric finds himself terrified to be seventeen. He will be expected to have his own wife and children very soon.

“Follow us to my rooms,” Lord Stark orders. “I’ll have the whole tale from you there.”

Lyra- Lady Lyra, he corrects himself- clings to her father’s arm. Her mother is quick on their heels, wringing her pale hands with worry. Lord Robb walks beside Dom in silence, though he shoots curious glances every other step.

They finally reach Lord Stark’s solar. It is sparsely decorated, just as Father’s is, but furnished with far more comfortable chairs. Domeric refuses one. He does not lie when he says he needs to stretch his legs. He’s been astride a horse for nearly three weeks straight. Both he and Lady Lyra wholeheartedly accept the platter of cheese, fruit, and bread. Hunting is all well and good, but there’s nothing quite like fresh fruit and warm bread.

“Manners, Lyra!” Lady Catelyn snaps. “You’re not starved if that ridiculous bow strung across-“

“Catelyn,” Lord Stark murmurs. He rubs his eyes tiredly. “Not now. Let them eat and speak. Domeric, if you would.”

Domeric clears his throat and takes a long drink of wine.

“I was rather homesick and had an itch for adventure,” he began, “so I thought I would return to the Dreadfort for a few moons. I took the long way home. North up the White Knife and then west instead of cutting through Hornwood.”

Lord Stark nods, seemingly understanding of Domeric’s wanderlust.

“I was making camp, ready to turn west the next day, when I came across a small campfire. I’ve been in the Vale, as you know, so you can imagine my surprise when it’s a girl cowering in the rocks.”

“I was not-“

“Lyra!” Her mother cries.

Domeric can’t quite hide his grin. They really are a pack of wolves. It’s so different from the sinister silence and cold quiet of Father and Auntie.

“Please continue, Domeric,” Lord Stark says.

“Of course, my lord.” He eyes Lady Stark a little warily. “I thought she was a murderer at first, or perhaps a wildling. Then I noticed the fit and make of her boots and the assortment of bread she offered. It wasn’t until later that I noticed her hair. It was a cloudy night, you see. I could only tell that she had odd brows.”

Lady Stark collapses into the chair beside her son.

“It’ll never wash out,” she mutters. 

To his relief, Lyra doesn’t mention that it had indeed faded when they washed up in the river. He’d rather not give the Starks any reason to think of him as anything other than a rescuer. He may be a Bolton, but he’s a knight. No true man, of the North or no, would take a woman against her will.

“She only attempted escape once. The next day. After that, she was rather well behaved.”

Lord Robb snorts, but Lady Lyra speaks for the first time.

“He caught me, if you can believe it. I’ve never met anyone as good as me before.”

“Neither have I,” Domeric admits, smiling faintly. “I’ve been compared to the late Lady Lyanna my entire life, but I suppose it will be Lady Lyra now.”

Lord Stark blinks heavily down at his hands. His daughter shuffles on her feet and chews her bottom lip.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, Father,” she says in a small voice. “I...it’s only that you need to know that I won’t do it.”

“Lyra, you are a daughter of House Stark,” Lady Catelyn cuts in. “It is your duty-“

“And I can do my duty just fine in the North!”

Domeric glances at the door. He could probably sneak out without anyone the wiser, but Father would flay him if he did. There’s too much to learn by staying.

“Mother. Father. Sansa was born for that life. It was never me. Marry me to one of the northern lords. I’d rather marry Theon than the damn prince.”

She seems to take hope from their silence. “I’m already married to Dom by wildling standards,” she says cheerily 

Domeric’s stomach falls to the floor. The blood leaves his head in a dizzying rush.

“My lord, I swear I-“

“Oh, seven hells! Not like that!” She protests, her face beet red. “I only meant that he caught me. Twice, actually, now that I think of it...”

Domeric glances at the door again. Fuck Roose Bolton. He’s making a run for it at the first chance.

“Are you betrothed, Dom?” She asks curiously, unaware of his guts strangling themselves.

“No, Lyra, I am not,” he bites out.

“Why not?”

“I am a Bolton.”

She meets his eerie gaze and tilts her head to the side, remembering one of the first things he asked her.

“Are they so easily frightened?” She asks.

“Lyra, leave the lad be,” Lord Stark grunts. “Cat, take her to bathe and rest. Robb and I will speak with Lord Domeric.”

Lady Lyra lets her mother usher her out of the solar. She cringes at him over her shoulder in some sort of half arsed apology. Domeric does not offer her any kindness. She may quite literally be the death of him.

When they are gone, Lord Stark gestures to the empty seat across from his desk. Domeric obeys quickly. The silence is deafening. He can hear the bustle of servants and the crackling of the fire. The setting sun turns a painting of the Wolfswood gold.

“You are familiar with my daughter,” Lord Stark finally says.

Dom chances a look at him. His eyes are ice, giving away nothing but the sturdy cold of winter. Domeric turns several replies over before settling on, “It is difficult to keep with formalities on the road, my lord.”

Lord Stark says nothing, only examines him with those cold eyes.

“You really caught her?” Lord Robb speaks up.

Domeric finally breaks Lord Stark’s stare to look at his son. It is strange to see a male version of a girl’s face he knows well. They have the same wavy hair, almond eyes, and long nose. Lord Robb is handsome enough, but it is only his coloring that makes him memorable. The Lady Lyra must be prettier than she lets on with her natural hair.

“Aye. I did. We raced several times.”

“And you won all of them?”

“No, not really.”

“Why do you think she stayed?” Lord Stark asks.

Domeric is surprised by the guilt he feels. He and Lyra shared many truths in the eight days they traveled together. It’s foolish, maybe, but it feels like a betrayal to reveal the things she said.

“I don’t think she truly meant to run away,” Dom admits. “Not this time, at least. She said she wanted to see the Wall.”

Lord Stark’s icy facade breaks. He slumps in his seat and gazes out the window with a pained expression. Very quietly, as though speaking to a ghost only he can see, he says, “I knew she had the wolf’s blood, but I thought it was only a touch.”

“None of us knew, Father,” Lord Robb says. “We all thought it would be Arya.”

Domeric weighs his options. It isn’t his place to comfort Eddard Stark. It is, however, his place to build trust with the Starks. They are his liege lords. He will kneel to Robb Stark one day.

“If I may, my lords...” At their nods, he says, “Lyra did not seem disheartened by the concept of marriage. She spoke of it happily enough once or twice. I believe she fears being caged above all.”

Lord Stark frowns thoughtfully. Domeric and Lord Robb wait patiently while he sorts out his thoughts, though the heat starts to wear on Dom. It will be nice to have a good night’s sleep. One on a featherbed and with more than a girl to stand watch. 

”Lyra is right,” Lord Robb says, his voice quiet. “We should switch out her and Sansa.”

Lord Stark runs his hand over his face. “I would rather none of you go so far from home, but I cannot say no to the King. Not after...Lyanna.”

Domeric works hard to keep his expression carefully blank. Why would Ned Stark owe Robert Baratheon anything after Lyanna Stark’s death? He’ll have to ask Father about it when he returns home.

“But this is not the time for such discussion,” Lord Stark says. “I want to thank you, Lord Domeric, for returning my daughter safely.”

Domeric bows his head. “It is what any decent man would do, Lord Stark.”

“What reward would you have of me?”

“None,” Dom says, frowning. “Our families share a tumultuous history, but you are my liege lord. I require no compensation for seeing any man’s daughter home safely, especially yours. A day or two of rest would be met with gratitude, however.”

“Stay as long as you like. Cat will already have set up rooms for you. There’s probably a servant waiting to lead you to the baths, though I suppose you’ll have to wear Theon’s clothes.”

Domeric rises and bows, not the least bit insincere with his gratitude. A bath in Winterfell’s famed hot springs and a warm bed is precisely what he needs.

“Thank you, my lord,” he says.

His legs almost go weak when he closes the door behind himself. There is, in fact, a servant waiting to lead him to the baths, but he ignores them. He takes a moment to breathe, to relish in the joy of life. His head is still on his shoulders. Gods be good, it will be for a while yet.

On the fifth day, when he’s had enough of Theon Greyjoy’s terrible jokes and the guard’s glowering suspicions, Domeric approaches Lord Stark with his plans to leave the following morning. He is led back into the solar instead. Domeric and Lord Stark stare at each other for a long time. Finally, just when Domeric is about to swallow his pride, Lord Stark breaks the silence.

“My daughter has asked for your hand in marriage,” he says drily.

Domeric curses. He really, really should have just stayed in the Vale.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Ser Barristan was in King’s Landing, but that’s no fun.

——Three Years Later——

  
Lyra wakes to the sound of water splashing. For a moment, she thinks it must be Sansa before everything catches up to her. Her dry mouth, her throbbing head, the ache between her legs.

It began as a wedding. The wedding of the eldest Stark daughter, but still just a wedding. Then the King came. Roose Bolton, for all of his icy stoicism, is very northern in that he wants to prove his superiority over the South. It’s probably the only senseless thing he allows himself. Well, that and the leeches.

Lyra cracks one eye open. Gray light filters in through the seam of the shutters, still closed against the waking bustle of Winterfell. It is quieter than it has been in a moon’s turn. Everyone must feel as terrible as Lyra does. Even her new husband, if he’s decided to bathe in the dark.

She stretches over the bedside, reaching for the pitcher of water and cup on the nightstand. She’s impressed with herself when she manages to down two cups without spilling a drop. She finally sits up on the third.

“I haven’t felt this wretched since Theon’s name day,” she whines.

Her husband pauses and glances over his shoulder. She’d been surprised at how muscled he is under his clothes. Domeric is tall and slender, like many northerners descended from the First Men. She had ogled the ridges of his torso with fascination the previous night. This morning, she admires how his muscles writhe under the pale skin of his back.

“I should certainly hope not,” he says, smirking at her.

Heat blooms across her face and neck as she scowls. He dunks his head under the water to hide his smile, the smug prat. He had admittedly been very...well, perhaps gentle isn’t the word, but he had been considerate.

“Domeric,” she says when he resurfaces, “you said you’d tell me why. Why you...you know, on my belly instead...”

He stands. The water rushes down in his body in streams that glint in the scarce afternoon light. Lyra averts her eyes, studying the intricate carvings on the dresser instead. She doesn’t look back until the bed dips under his weight. She makes to raise the sheet over her chest, but he pulls her wrist back gently.

His eyes, so eerie and threatening, are soft with warmth.

“My mother died of childbed fever,” he says. “And so did my father’s next wife. I have four baby brothers buried under the Dreadfort.”

He reaches up to brush a stray lock of red hair out of her eyes. “Your mother’s fertility is legendary, but your aunt’s infertility is just as infamous and both of your grandmothers died in the birthing bed. You are young, Lyra. We both are. We do not love each other yet, but I would like the opportunity to.”

Lyra nods, once more taken aback by his thoughtfulness. They’d exchanged letters over the three years of their betrothal, but they were mostly about horses and hunting and his time in the Vale. She knew he wasn’t foolish or immature. His letters were eloquent and judicious. She just didn’t expect him to be so...him.

“Besides, if you really are so determined to follow your sister, I’d rather not get stuck in King’s Landing if things go awry. I don’t trust the Queen. She’s nothing more than a viper in pretty clothes.”

“Please. Vipers are much more impressive.”

His lips twitch, then as if he remembers he doesn’t have to hide, they pull back into a wide smile. It’s fascinating to watch. Does Roose Bolton smile like this? Lyra wonders. Will I ever see his eyes soften like his son’s?

It’s doubtful.

Domeric reaches out and rubs his thumb against her nipple, then brings it down to trace the heavy curve of her breast. She shivers and tries to ignore the the tempting whispers in her mind. They are as deep and husky as his had been the night before.

“If I had been gentler, I might have been able to take you again. I dearly wish to.”

Lyra squeezes his wrist and forces his arm away. He lets her, another smile playing on his lips. She likes his lips. They aren’t obscene like the Lannister’s, just full enough to balance out the sharp edges of his cheeks. His looks are subtle. They prod and poke until it’s impossible to see him as plain as he makes himself out to be.

“If you had been gentler, I might have been able to ride the sand steed my father gifted us.”

“Pity, that,” he says happily. “I suppose I’ll just have to take him out instead.”

Comprehension dawns, slowly transforming into indignation. She surges forward and shoves him onto his back. Almost reflexively, he hooks one hand behind her knee and pulls her on top of him.

“Is that why you did it?!” She half screeches.

“Partly,” Dom admits, distracted by her breasts. “Partly I couldn’t help myself.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you even try?”

“Not really.”

His fingers trail from her knee to her thigh to her arse. He digs his thumbs into her hips and applies the smaller bit of pressure, tempting them to roll back. Lyra refuses.

“Will you come back here tonight?” He asks. “Just to sleep? I like sharing a bed with you.”

Lyra chews on her bottom lip. “I want to spend as much time with Rickon as I can. He’s my favorite, you know.”

“Aye, I’m well aware. I prefer Jon Snow.”

Lyra groans at the mention of Jon. They’ve argued before. They’re both as stubborn as mules and have all the fury of winter bottled besides. Her longest fight with Jon was a week. This one has been going three times that.

Lyra extracts herself from Dom, stretching when her bare feet hit the warm floor. She feels his eyes on her as she climbs into the bath.

“Are you upset with Jon?”

“We’ll work it out. We always do.”

She washes while he dresses. She likes this little show of domesticity, though the wilder parts of her are mournful to have it come so soon. But perhaps she shouldn’t worry. Hells, he’d given her a bow and quiver as a wedding gift. He really doesn’t seem the type to hold her back, but the best hunters lay sly traps.

“Shall I send a maid?” He asks.

“Yes, please. And would you have my new bow sent to the Godswood? I don’t feel like dealing with Theon.”

The bow had been a marvel to everyone watching. Made from weirwood and carved with wolves and runes, it had belonged to a long dead Stark that failed to take the Dreadfort. Lyra, and everyone else in the Hall, had suddenly wondered what other pieces of Stark history were hiding in the fort of the Red Kings.

Domeric murmurs his assent and leans down to kiss her forehead. She watches him go thoughtfully. He’s awfully affectionate to be such a cold hearted bastard.

Lyra steps into the Great Hall and nearly steps right back out. Queen Cersei is alone at the high table with her two golden haired brothers. Old Nan is sitting by herself under one of tall, narrow windows. Lyra could sit by her. Say she’s desperate to spend time with her family while she can.

Moondancer, her black and brown direwolf, nudges her calves. A gentle reminder that direwolves do not balk. Lyra sighs, straightens her spine, and makes way to sit across from the Queen.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Three sets of cat eyes pin her to her seat. Lyra smiles at the brothers and loads her plate with food. She doesn’t know if her hunger is from the ale or the bedding, but it is fierce.

“Good morning, Lady Bolton.”

Lyra pauses, her spoon hovering in midair.

“You’re the first person to call me that, Your Grace. I think I like it.”

The Queen smiles. It’s a masterful smile. Sansa will eat it right up, the poor thing. They’ll eat Sansa up and spit her back out just to do it all over again.

“How was your bedding, sweet girl?” The Queen asks.

Lyra glances at the Lannister brothers. The Kingslayer watches her curiously over his mug. The Imp at least has the courtesy to give his sister a chiding look. If Cersei Lannister thinks she can make Lyra uncomfortable, she will be sorely disappointed. One does not grow up with Theon Greyjoy and retain their innocence.

“It was fun,” Lyra says, biting into her toast.

Lord Tyrion chokes on his ale. The Queen’s awful smile hardens. “You’re a very lucky girl, then.”

“Luck didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“That is right. I’d quite forgotten. It’s easy to, what with their being so many of you. Quite unseemly, is it not, to switch out daughters?”

“Not really,” Lyra shrugs, ignoring the barb. “We all have our own ambitions.”

“A peaceful land, a quiet people,” a soft voice says.

Roose Bolton appears at Lyra’s shoulder. He bows to the Queen, nods at her brothers, and takes a seat at Lyra’s side. He appraises her new dress.

“Our colors suit you Lyra,” he says.

“Yes, they do,” Queen Cersei says. “You’re a very lucky girl, indeed, Lyra Bolton. Not many girls of your coloring could wear red and pink so well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Though I fear Sansa will put me to shame. We’ve dreamt up a hundred black and gold dresses for her.”

Something in the Queen’s expression sours, but she never stops smiling. “Lord Stark said that you will be coming to the capital help your sister settle in. Very sweet of you.”

“She’s pack. We look after one another.” Lyra turns to face Lord Bolton. “Speaking of, goodfather, Domeric and I have considered offering a position to my half brother. Do you think he would be a good fit?”

Roose Bolton does not flinch at the sudden familiarity. He continues eating as if she hadn’t just met him the week before. Roose Bolton is many things, a northerner chief amongst them. It’s in their blood to turn ally against southerners.

“He’s a quiet boy well on his way to becoming the best swordsman in the North. He would fit well into any household.”

“The best swordsman in the North?” Jaime Lannister asks, suddenly interested.

“Young and untested but a natural in the yard. And I am not a man to give out idle praise.”

“Will he be training today?” Ser Jaime asks.

“Probably,” Lyra says.

“Then I shall judge him for myself. Brother, would you like to come along?”

“I suppose. Will you be watching, Lady Bolton? You can help us differentiate between all the bearded faces.”

Lyra really hadn’t wanted to face her brothers, but she’ll do it for Jon.Besides, Lord Tyrion seems to be the only Lannister with any sense. It would do well to cultivate him. 

“I would be honored to accompany you. Will you join us, Your Grace?”

“A queen has better things to do than watch men swing swords.”

Lyra bites back a comment about how dull the life of a queen must be. She curtsies instead, wishing the queen a good day. Roose Bolton follows them out as they wind through the halls. He is mostly silent, watching as Lyra chats with the Lannister brothers. She’s surprised that she likes the Kingslayer. He has a dry, inappropriate sense of humor that complements Lord Tyrion’s witty insults. What began as a chore quickly becomes a pleasant afternoon.

Theon Greyjoy spots her first. His teasing smirk dies when Jaime Lannister and Roose Bolton lean against the fence at either side. Moondancer trots off to join Grey Wind and Ghost in the boy’s corner. Meanwhile, Lord Tyrion climbs onto a nearby barrel to rest his legs. He is surprisingly open about his condition and answers her questions with a cheerful air.

“I didn’t take you for a healer, Lady Lyra,” he says.

“Oh, I’m not. My parents and Maester Lewin learned to keep my mindoccupied is all. Kept me out of trouble. Mother even relented and let me join them in the training yard after I began embroidering curse words on the Septa’s sleeves.”

Tyrion laughs. “Did you really?”

“Aye. Prettiest words you’ve ever seen. I don’t mind the womanly arts. I quite enjoy them, as a matter of fact. I just never saw the point in studying the Seven. Oh look! Here’s Theon, going up against Alyn. Theon isn’t too bad. It’s archery where he excels.”

“Are you any good with a blade?” The Kingslayer asks.

“Not really. I never liked it enough to truly pursue it.”

The four of them lapse into a companionable silence. Lyra is almost tempted to change into leathers and join the fun. She’s still sore though. Best to let it heal. Especially with a smoky black sand steed waiting in the stables.

“Ser Jaime.”

Lyra’s heart leaps in her throat as Ser Barristan stands next to Tyrion. She’s so caught up in her excitement that she doesn’t see Domeric in his shadow.

“Hello, Father. Lyra. I’m surprised to see you here. I thought to meet you in the stables with your father’s gift. It’s where I came across Ser Barristan.”

“A fine gift, my lady. There is no finer horse in the stables.”

Domeric frowns. “I’m not so sure, Ser. That warhorse of Clegane’s is a fine beast.”

“Beast is one word for it,” Lord Tyrion mutters. “Bloody thing thinks it’s a dragon.”

“Is Clegane as good as they say? Or is it just his size?” Lyra wonders.

“Both,” Ser Barristan answers. “He has never defeated me, but he is one of the few men that can make me sweat. What about the Northmen, Jaime? Are there any capable of challenging us?”

They look out to where Robb is wielding a blunted greatsword againsta massive Bolton man named Alex. She hasn’t learned all of their names yet. She only remembers a few with notable features like Alex and Marcus, who is missing an ear from the Rebellion.

Robb is good. He’s only of average height, but barrel chested and strong. It’s evident in the weight of his blows and the heavy clang against Alex’s own massive blade. Once, he and Theon brought out battle axes for fun. It had been terrifying. He’d nearly broken Theon’s leg on accident. It was one of the only times they’d seen Father truly furious.

“Lord Robb is talented,” Ser Barristan says.

“It’s the bastard I’m here for,” Ser Jaime announces. “Bolton says he shows promise.”

Ser Barristan raises his brows. “Indeed? Lord Bolton is not one for idle praise.

Lord Roose bows his head respectfully. The two men are almost painfully polite to one another. With a jolt, Lyra realizes they were both on the Trident, in that last terrible battle. She’ll have to ask Domeric if they came across one other and how Lord Bolton lived to tell the tale. Lord Tyrion meets her gaze with his own curious one. He’ll be asking his brother, no doubt.

As good as Robb is, he isn’t as experienced as Alex. He isn’t afraid to admit it either. Lyra grins, watching her twin employ his full charm to convince Alex to teach him the move. Most assume that charisma comes from the Tully side, but the twins know better. It’s the wildness they call on. They let it shine through their eyes, let more of their teeth show in their smile.

Jon is next. He walks to the center of the ring solemnly and shakes hands with Einar, Mikken’s cousin. It’s a much different fight from the previous one.Einar uses long reach to keep Jon’s quick strikes at bay. They take up more room, their feet moving in a complicated dance.

“He’s holding back,” Ser Jaime announces.

“Of course he is,” His brother says. “He’s a bastard. People like us know not to bring attention to ourselves.”

Jon deserves so much better than this. He’s kind, intelligent, and fierce. He deserves the world, not hiding away in the shadow of Winterfell and the Wall.

“Does he look familiar to you?” Ser Barristan asks.

Ser Jaime tucks his golden hair behind his ear and leans forward. Damn Lannisters and their good looks.

“He does, doesn’t he? But who?” He abruptly turns to Lyra, smirking when he realizes she’s been admiring his profile. “Who’s his mother?”

Lyra isn’t embarrassed. She doesn’t want Jaime Lannister. He’s just nice to look at, like Sansa’s embroidery or one of the Manderly’s mermaid statues.

“Father never said,” she admits. “There were rumors about Ashara Dayne once. It was one of the only times I’ve ever seen him angry. He forbade anyone of ever speaking of her again.”

Ser Barristan frowns deeply. Ser Jaime, however, hums thoughtfully.

“I don’t see any Arthur in him, do you?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

Lyra bristles. No good can come of a Lannister finding a Stark interesting. Domeric rubs his arm against hers in solidarity. She lets herself lean into him the slightest bit.

“What do you say, Lord Commander? Shall it be me or you?”

Lord Tyrion jolts to attention. His mismatched eyes turn back tothe match with a new sharpness.

“Ser Arys is weighed down by armor,” Ser Barristan says. “It might give the boy a better chance.”

“Have you grown soft in your old age?”

“You didn’t seem to think so at Moat Cailin.”

“It should be you then, Ser Grandfather. Let the bastard prove himself to the best of the best.”

Ser Barristan inclines his head. “Very well. Though if he does as well I think he might, I have no doubt you will follow me into the ring.”

“Probably,” Jaime concedes.

Barristan the Bold, the Barristan the Bold, climbs over the wooden fence. The entirety of the training yard quietens as he strides to face Jon and Einar. Ser Arys nudges Prince Tommen away from Bran so they may watch alongside the Kingslayer. Everyone holds their breath as Jory Cassel passes his own bastard sword to Jon.

It begins slowly. A dodge, a clang, a twist of the wrist. Ser Barristan circles Jon, studying his loose posture and quick feet. Fast as a snake, the old knight lunges. Jon’s boots scuff against the hard ground as he throws himself to the right, but Ser Barristan is already there. Jon switches to two hands, swinging his blade like Robb to block the blow. Ser Barristan gives an inch, then nods his head in approval. The northerners give a quiet cheer.

They meet again, this time not so cautiously. Ser Barristan does not outright attack. Jon would surely be on his back if he did. Instead, the Lord Commander contents himself with baiting Jon. He tests his reflexes, his speed, his strength.

“The boy’s good,” Ser Arys says, just as Ser Barristan throws his weight behind a swing. Lyra never cared enough to master fighting, but she can tell the form is perfect. Even Sansa would be hard pressed not to notice. His body follows through the blow with a graceful twist. Jon skitters out of the way, losing his balance and collapsing onto the ground. The audience cheers regardless of his defeat.

Ser Barristan pulls Jon to his feet, but his kind smile from earlier is gone. In its place is a carefully blank mask. Ser Jaime seems to notice. He vaults over the fence in a feat of boyish athleticism.

The Lord Commander says something to his Kingsguard that makes him smirk. Ser Jaime shrugs and asks Jon something that makes him bow his head. Ser Barristan bows, offering a pained smile, and leaves Jon to face the Kingslayer.

Ser Jaime is nowhere near as patient. He goes on the attack, his sword nothing more than a golden blur. Jon is almost immediately on the ground. It happens again and again. On his fourth fall, Jon stands rises with a feverish light shining in his grey eyes. Ser Jaime balks.

He stares at Jon, then glances back at Ser Barristan, who stands behind Bran with that blank mask. Then, like an utter madman, Jaime Lannister throws his head back in laughter before attacking once more.

“Is he a Dayne?” Ser Arys asks his lord commander.

“He’s a Stark,” Lyra snaps.

“That he is, my lady,” Ser Barristan says, almost sadly. “That he is.”

After Jon is surely beaten black and blue, the Lord Commander and the Kingslayer leave with their heads bent together. Lord Tyrion watches them closely, but Lyra doesn’t pay them any mind. Instead, she bids farewell to the men, giving Prince Tommen a solemn curtesy, and heads off to find Arya.

Arya is so immersed in her sulking, she hardly notices when Lyra enters the Lady’s solar. Moondancer darts straight to Lady. The pups begin licking and tugging at one another.

“Have you come to join us, Lady Lyra?” The Septa asks.

“Oh gods no,” Lyra says, before she can stop herself. As much as she likes dressmaking and embroidery, she can’t stand to do it the pious silence of Septa Mordane. “I’ve come to fetch Arya.”

Then, seeing Sansa‘s downcast eyes, she hastily adds, “And Sansa.”

Septa Mordane is not pleased, but she can’t very well deny Lady Bolton. Arya wastes no time in throwing her embroidery hoop to the side. Sansa is much more demure and graceful, as she always is. The smallfolk will love her, at least, even if Joffrey does not.

Lyra tells them of Jon’s good fortune on their way to the Godswood. Sansa vows to congratulate him, while Arya fantasizes about all the daring adventures she and Jon will go on together.

“Lyra,” Sansa asks shyly. “How was your wedding night?”

Lyra sighs heavily. “Mother would not want me to tell you.”

“Since when do you listen to Mother?” Arya calls over her shoulder, where she’s kicking playfully at their direwolves.

“I always listen to Mother. I just hardly obey her.”

The Godswood is silent except for the birds and creatures. Several scurry up the trees at the sight of the direwolves. The girls leave them to their faux hunting and make their way to the Heart Tree. There, a weirwood bow and a red and pink quiver are propped up on a root.

“Can I, Lyra? Can I? Please?” Arya begs.

“What? You don’t want to hear about my marriage bed?”

Arya scoffs. “No I don’t want to hear about your husband and his creepy eyes.”

“His eyes aren’t that creepy,” Lyra says, turning to Sansa for support. Sansa only looks over at the wolves. “Fine. Go on. Take it.”

Arya squeals, the girliest thing she’s ever done, and promptly runs off with the bow and arrows. Lyra and Sansa take a seat on the root, watching as their sister aims an arrow away from the entrance.

“So?” Sansa hedges. “How was it?”

“It was....messy.”

Sansa’s excitement falls. “Messy?”

“Sansa....you’re my closest friend. Well, besides Robb and Jon, anyway, but you’re also my little sister. I don’t...I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

Sansa sits up straighter. “What do you mean, ruin it? Was he cruel? Shall we go to Robb and Jon?”

A rush of affection brings tears to Lyra’s eyes. “No, Sansa. Domeric was very kind. It’s only that, well...Septa Mordane lied.”

“What about?!”

“All of it.”

“Lyra! Mother isn’t coming with us and you don’t know how long you’ll be staying. I’ll only have Father and the Septa when I get married. I need to know.”

“Fine,” Lyra relents. She takes a deep breath and meets her sister’s blue eyes. Both of their cheeks burn with a fiery blush. “It’s gross and it hurt, but it was a lot of fun and I can’t wait to do it again.”

“Fun?” Sansa asks, her brows furrowed. “But Septa Mordane said you only need lie there for your lord husband.”

“I think...I think that might be true for some. Maybe if your husband is cruel or uncaring.”

“Oh, Lyra. Was Lord Domeric so romantic?”

“Er. Not romantic, but he made sure I enjoyed it too.”

“Enjoyed it? What does that mean?”

Lyra explains as best she can, though there’s really nothing else to compare it to. Sansa blushes as red as her hair. It is a long, awkward conversation that only ends when Arya comes over to tell them to stop their giggling so she can concentrate.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so since some people were curious, here’s what I had in mind for this fic 😌

PART 1-

Rickon and Bran complain about not going on the King’s hunt, so Lyra volunteers to take them riding since it’s the last time she’ll be in Winterfell with her family. Tommen overhears and asks to accompany them. Cersei is forced to relent when Robert says that he likes the idea. When Ser Barristan sees Jon saddling up to go with Lyra and Domeric that morning, he switches with Tommen’s kingsguard, saying that he wants to take advantage of the open air while he can. Arya sneaks after them and joins up.

Lyra and Domeric spend their time cajoling Jon into joining the Bolton household. “Come live with us for a while. You can always take the black later and Father will need you in King’s Landing. You can sail to the Wall from there if it really comes down to it.” Ser Barristan agrees with them. Jon decides to take them up on the offer, emphasizing that he really does want to take the black someday. As a result of the day’s events, Bran does not fall. That night, Ned becomes worried when Jon announces that he’s joined the Bolton guard and that Ser Barristan was the one to tip the scales. Domeric reports it to his father, who begins to put the puzzle together.

PART 2-

Lyra, Domeric, Jon and Bran take a detour to God’s Eye with some Bolton men. They rejoin the King’s procession at the Trident, on the night of Arya’s “trial”. They sneak into the inn and listen at the back. Domeric realizes what’s going to happen, so he tells Lyra to buy him some time. He, Jon, and Bran sneak back out to set Lady free while Lyra makes a show of belittling Joffrey and challenging him to a fight.

Later that night, Domeric tells Lord Stark he should call for more Northmen. To his surprise, Ned agrees, but proposes that they be covert about it. Sansa needs ladies-in-waiting and the Mormonts are noble ladies. The next morning, Domeric and Lyra meet Renly and Loras. They ask about Stannis in curiosity. The strange, cryptic answers make them realize that something is wrong.

PART 3-

Because Lyra was such a menace growing up, she was given extra lessons to keep out of trouble. With Domeric’s approval, and to the complete envy of Cersei, she begins assisting her father and Renly with their council duties. As much as she’s interested in Littlefinger’s office, she’s never excelled with numbers and he’s too slimy for her tastes, so she steers clear of him. She approaches Varys as well, but it’s Domeric that he gets along with the most.

As time goes on, everyone begins to realize how truly horrid Joffrey and Cersei are so Lyra and Jon begin plotting to marry Margaery to Joffrey and Sansa to Willas. When they confront Ned with their plans, he finally reveals Cersei and Jaime’s incest. Jon points out that it doesn’t affect their plans much. Margaery Tyrell wants to be queen, no matter who the king is. Sansa can still be married to Lord Willas either way. Ned gives his approval, but before anything can happen, Robert dies. He immediately sends the rest of them out of the city. When Jon sneaks back to stay behind, Ned tells him the truth about his parentage. “You’re all I have left of my sister,” he says. “You’re all that’s left of a dynasty.”

Ned is imprisoned a week later. Jon escapes, only stopping long enough to find Ser Barristan. “I’m going to make them all bleed. You can either help or die with them.”

PART 4-

Lyra and the Northern contingency return North with the Lannisters on their heels. Tywin begins attacking the Riverlands. A Ryswell soldier is sent ahead to Robb with news of their escape. Sansa is sad and angry. When it’s all explained and it finally sinks in, she asks Lyra and Dom if she can marry Renly instead. Lyra explains that he’s gay, and he’ll never love her as a wife should be loved, and that he’s probably going to make a bid for the Throne. “I’ve always told you to go after what you want, Sansa,” she says. “If you really want to be queen, we can get Robb to try and broker something, but really think about what will make you happy.”

Bran reunites them with their direwolves. News comes of Ned’s death. Sansa declares that she is a wolf as much as the rest of them and that she will do what she must to help them win the war.Jon catches up with them. He tells them of his parentage. “I don’t want to be King, but I’ll let them think I do. I’ll kill them all and melt their Throne to the ground.”

While all of this is happening, Tyrion has taken a very long detour to avoid his family as long as he can. When he hears rumors of Lyra’s party hurrying to Riverrun, he realizes it could be a way to win favor with his father. He hunts down the nearest Lannister contingency and makes a plan. Lyra’s party is attacked. In the chaos, Dacey Mormont has lost a leg and Arya and Bran are taken captive. She was guarding him while he warged to fight through Summer.

Ser Barristan, who was released from the Kingsguard, catches up with them not long after. When they all arrive at Riverrun, Robb is declared King in the North, but he is hesitant because of Jon. Jon stands up, reveals himself to be Jon Targaryen, King of the Six Kingdoms. The lords ask that Jaime, who is prisoner, confirm what Jon and Ser Barristan say. Ser Barristan pressures Jaime to confess the truth. Dacey is sent back to Bear Island.

While they’re talking, Domeric calmly begins peeling apples and feeding the pieces to Moondancer. Though everyone, even Robb, is unsettled, Jaime laughs and says that he watched Rickard Stark cook in his armor; it will take more than that to scare one of Aerys’s kingsguard. Jon loses his temper, asking why Jaime would stand by and let that happen, asks why he let Elia and her children be slaughtered. Jaime finally cracks. He admits to why killed Aerys and that Jon is almost definitely a Targaryen, though only Ned Stark would ever know if he’s trueborn. Domeric points out that it’s not true. Howland Reed was at the Tower of Joy as well. He is summoned, but the lords accept Jon’s parentage as the truth, and ravens are sent throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

Domeric, Jon, Lyra, and Sansa, the latter of whom has learned to trust no one that isn’t a Stark, beg Robb to send someone other than Theon to the Iron Islands. He refuses. Catelyn and Howland are sent to Highgarden. They have just brokered a deal that Margaery and Jon will wed and Sansa will become Lady of Highgarden when Renly is assassinated. They escape with Brienne.

Meanwhile, Dorne is curious about Jon, and Oberyn is restless, so he and his daughters are sent to investigate. In the Westerlands, Domeric counsels Robb to send for Ramsey Snow. “I know what my father said, but my brother is mad. You’re the King and I’m the future Lord of the Dreadfort. Father can’t do anything against our summons. Send Ramsey out to wreak havoc across the Westerlands. Lyra will slit my throat in my sleep if he kills Rickon. Besides, maybe someone will kill the bastard for me.”

PART 5-

Before Domeric left with Robb, he and Lyra began trying for a child to secure the Bolton line in case of his death. She became pregnant and stayed behind with Sansa and Catelyn at Riverrun. Lyra long ago accepted that she would never be a warrior. She didn’t have the raw talent or the passion to put in any true effort into swordplay. Because of that, she has been practicing archery at every spare moment. She was always good at it, but preferred embroidery and painting. Now, after practicing diligently since King’s Landing, she is better than even Theon.

Oberyn has also lingered behind to await word from his brother. To Catelyn’s complete dismay, Sansa worked out a deal so that he will teach her poisons. She has also begun trying to warg into animals other than Lady. Lyra can’t be bothered to extend her gifts beyond Moondancer. Not only does she have no desire to, but she has been incredibly busy in her duties as Robb’s regent. She gives no mercy. All of her executions are done by her own hand in front of a Heart Tree. News arrives that Theon has taken Winterfell and with the news of Rickon’s death and her daughters’ new changes, Catelyn breaks and releases the Kingslayer.

Her treachery is unearthed quickly. Lyra, though she is nearly six moons pregnant, goes after him herself with four others. Lady and Moondancer track him easily, but he and Brienne try their best to escape. Lyra decides that she would rather him be dead than back at his father’s side and shoots an arrow through the back of his neck. Brienne is put into chains and Jaime’s head is removed from his shoulders. His body is left in the nearest ditch.

A Lannister prisoner is released to deliver Jaime’s head to King’s Landing. Catelyn has a mental breakdown, saying that Lyra has the blood of Bran and Arya on her hands. Lyra shakes her head. “Nymeria and Summer and Shaggydog are still alive. My brothers and sister are too.”

Bran and Arya turn up outside the gates a fortnight later.

PART 6-

The Tyrells decide not to take a chance with Jon after Renly’s assassination and Robb loses the North. Margaery marries Joffrey instead. King’s Landing is secured and Tywin begins plotting with Roose Bolton, who is plotting to put Domeric in Winterfell since he is married to the eldest Stark daughter. However, the Tyrells begin to regret their decision as the war progresses. Stories and songs emerge from the war. They boast of the Young Wolf, ferocious and honorable. They whisper of the Flayed Man, as deadly and cold as winter itself. Most of all, they sing of Jon Targaryen, who has the fire of a dragon and the steadiness of winter.

Varys, however, was never so hesitant. He remembers Jon, Domeric, and Lyra from their time in the capital. Great things begin to happen in the shadows. Little birds migrate to Dorne, to Riverrun, to Astapor.

Yet even greater things happen without any such orchestrations.

In the southernmost Riverlands, Tyrion Lannister wakes to find nearly all of his castle dead one day. He follows the trail of bodies to Arya and Bran Stark waiting in their open cell. Two massive direwolves, their fur sticky with blood, stand ready at their side. Bran Stark sighs heavily.

“We could use you in the war to come,” he says, “but you will never forgive my sister for what she’s done.”

Tyrion glances at Arya nervously, stumbling back when he realizes how close she’s come. Before he can even raise his hands, she drags a knife across his throat.

“Not me,” she says as he desperately presses his hands to his neck. “My sister killed your brother. Shot him dead with one arrow.”

The last thing Tyrion ever thinks of is Jaime with an arrow protruding from his eye.

In the Westerlands, two younger brothers stand before a Mountain, a viper and a wolf against a force of nature. It is a song that has been sung since the beginning of time, a song of revenge and love. A bard is executed publicly for singing ofthe Mountain That Rides No More, but he laughs in Joffrey’s face and quotes another popular song. “Winter is coming for the lions on the wings of a dragon. Kill me all you like, Your Grace. If the Targaryen boy doesn’t kill you, that Bolton sister of his will.”

In King’s Landing, Tywin Lannister terrorizes the servants and soldiers with his temper. Arya and Bran have escaped, leaving a castle full of dead Lannister men, including Tyrion, in their wake. The Bolton bastard is wreaking havoc in the Westerlands. Gregor Clegane was killed by none other than Jon Snow and Oberyn Martell. Doran claims that Oberyn has gone rogue, but Tywin is no fool. He is now facing Dorne, the Riverlands, the North, and the Targaryen girl is steadily traveling west to reunite with her nephew.

And then the unthinkable happens. Jaime's head is delivered by an Ashemark boy. The best swordsman of his generation ridden down by a pregnant girl. Cersei crumples to the ground, her scream echoing through the halls, and Tywin knows that it was all true. Varys has disappears, but Baelish is still skulking around. It is time to bring the Vale into the fold.

PART 7-

Bran dreams. He doesn't understand all of them, but between his sisters, they manage to figure the important ones out. Uncle Brynden is called back from the war to escort Sansa to the Vale. Using Domeric's advice (who was friends with Varys in King's Landing), she tricks Baelish into believing that she is miserable in Riverrun and is desperate to escape and marry a man of her station and leave the war behind. Littlefinger believes her and lowers his guard long enough for Sansa to poison him. With Littlefinger dead, Lysa has a breakdown and is coerced by Sansa into admitting that she killed her husband. Together, she and Uncle Brynden convince the Vale to finally join the war.

  
However, just as they have gathered in the shadow of the mountains, word comes that Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone with the Golden Company. Sansa ignores her uncle's warnings and travels to greet her. There, she tells Daenerys that Jon never truly wanted to be king. He only took up the mantle of Rhaegar's son to get revenge. Daenerys says that she will only accept him as a Targaryen if he can ride one of the dragons. Young Griff had failed the test back in Essos, but she was convinced to spare Varys and Jon Connington for their lies.

In Riverrun, Lyra gives birth to a son named Jon. She receives word that Sansa is on her way with Daenerys Targaryen and the armies of the Vale. Lyra sends a message to Robb, Jon, and Oberyn stating that they must return.

Joffery is murdered at his wedding. Cersei accuses Margaery and Tywin works to keep from alienating the Tyrells.

PART 8-

Everyone- bar the Lannisters, Tyrells, and Stormlords- converge at Harrenhall. Jon passes Dany's test and claims Rhaegal as his dragon. No one likes Dany because while they have been at war for years, she has been in Essos. Her arrogance is unfounded; yes, she may be the Mother of Dragons, but Jon Targaryen and Robb Stark have Lannister blood on their hands.

One night, Bran bursts into the war council and shoots a weirwood arrow at a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon. No one knows who it was meant for. The direwolves hunt Melisandre down. Bran sacrifices her to a weirwood tree and wargs into Viserion the next day. Dany is furious but her rage quickly turns to fear when Lyra tells her the story of Brandon Snow and his weirwood arrows. 

Recognizing that he cannot defeat the Starks while they have two dragons, Roose Bolton comes forward and reveals that Tywin Lannister has tried to coerce him into participating in a nefarious wedding plot. Robb's betrothal is broken and he immediately tries to wed Jeyne Westerling. While Lyra argues against it, Jeyne mysteriously drops dead of a fever. When confronted, Sansa reminds Robb that the Vale is indebted to her and she could make things very complicated.

Willas Tyrell surprises everyone when he arrives. He grovels to Jon, saying that he will depose his father and declare the Reach for House Targaryen if Margaery is allowed to join the Silent Sisters. Since no one wants a Tyrell on the Throne after current events, the marriage alliance falls to the Starks. When Lyra and Jon protest, Willas laughs and says, "If anyone has anything to fear from this marriage, it is me." Sansa marries him in front of the Heart Tree, escorted by Jon and Robb on either side.

Bran begs everyone to ignore the Lannisters and turn North, but no one other than the Northmen believe him about the Others. Domeric and Lyra are sent north with a third of the northern army and a fifth of the Vale soldiers, who volunteer on behalf of late Ned Stark. The plan is to retake Winterfell and secure a route for supplies and the return of the armies.

PART 9-

Robb and his allies lay siege to King's Landing. Tywin is confident because he has the Redwyne and Ironborn fleets on his side. Unfortunately- or perhaps fortunately- when he tries to escape with Tommen and Cersei, the Redwyne fleet turns on them. Dragons attack. Victarion blows his brother's dragon horn and dies, but Jon begins to lose control of Rhaegal. As they are plummeting to the ocean, he wargs into Rhaegal as a last ditch effort, forcing the foreign presence out of his mind. Rhaegal pulls out of the dive and converges on Victarion's ship. Euron, hesitant and confused, orders a retreat.

Margaery Tyrell surrenders the city. Everyone agrees to a kingsmoot, but they are sidetracked when Stannis Baratheon arrives under a truce flag, carrying an wight on his ship and carrying a grevious message from the Night's Watch. The Wall has fallen. The Lannisters are all hurriedly executed. Margaery does indeed join the Silent Sisters. In the chaos, no one can be bothered to investigate Roose Bolton and his bastard son’s abrupt murders.

PART 10-

Lyra arrives North to find that Rickon is acting Lord of Winterfell. Apparently, he had escaped Theon with a wildling prisoner. When Theon finally fled after his sister, Rickon returned with a band of warriors compiled of elderly mountain clansmen and warrior maidens, all led by a crippled Dacey Mormont. Lyra is met with news of the Others and that Stannis Baratheon was forced to let the wildlings camp on and just beyond the Wall. He is reported to have kept them in line as well as he can, but he is not from the North. His control is slipping. A Stark is needed on the Wall.

Lyra leaves Domeric and their son behind at Winterfell. He puts the Boltons and the Valemen to work cleansing the surrounding land of raiders and lingering Ironborn. Most villagers have learned of the Others and elect to follow the soldiers back to Wintertown.

Lyra, Arya, and their direwolves arrive at the Wall with most of the northern army. The wildings only test the waters once. The Starks and their wolves have little to do with the swift put-down. The northerners are war-weary, hungry, and filled with rage. Respect won, the Free Folk, the North, and the Black Brothers come to an uneasy alliance.

It is all for naught. After one vicious battle, the living are forced to retreat. Lyra stays behind to help Tormund organize the evacuation. But then they hear it, a great echoing crack that raises the sounds as though it is coming from the bowels of the earth itself. They share one glance and kick their horses into action.

Lyra trades horses seven times in her mad dash for Winterfell. The owners tried to refuse; Moondancer had to pull a man off the second one. She shouts the news to every person she passes and every particularly observant animal too. One never knows when a warg is present. Finally she teaches Winterfell, nearly collapsing in the courtyard. Domeric takes the news with grim acceptance, immediately calling for five riders to take the news south.

They decide to bolster the defenses of Winterfell. They have no idea how quickly the Others can move and don’t want to risk getting caught in a blizzard with elders and children. Old men and woman slit their throats in front of the Heart Tree, leaving the denizens of the castles to burn their bodies afterward. One wildling mutters something about wasted meat. Lyra wants to judge him, but she finds that she cannot. He has yet to see the dragons. He has yet to see the army Jon commands.

PART 11

Winterfell gives a great cheer when dragons are seen in the horizon. Danaerys lands first, her purple eyes wide as she takes in the ancient castle. Bran is next and Jon soon after. Almost as one, every Northman drops to one knee as he enters the courtyard. Arya only lasts two beats before she rushes to her feet and collided with him. The reunion is short lived. A council is called almost immediately. Danaerys still wants to see everything for herself until Bran swears that her dragons will become undead.

Eventually, it is decided that the first stand will take place at Winterfell while anyone that can’t fight is herded past the Neck. Ultimately, the Others do not seem to be in much of a hurry. They make a slow procession south, adding to their vast army as they go. Eventually, Lyra is convinced that they must abandon Winterfell. She falls back to Moat Cailin with her family.

The Long Night lasts for years, long enough for a second wall, one made of stone and strange eastern magics, to be erected across the Neck. The armies are rotated to prevent tiring. All six kingdoms are placed under iron tight restrictions. Food becomes more valuable than gold. Widows are the first called on to fight, then eventually all women. The most deaths happen in the first year until they manage to get a steady supply of dragonglass from Dragonstone. Sorcerers and warriors from across the world travel to Westeros to aid in the fight. Jon and Stannis are quick to keep R’hllor’s priestesses from kicking up a religious fervor. They need the people focused on the war, not angry gods. Those that can’t work farm and make supplies to send to the armies.

Finally, when Jon Bolton has seen his fifth nameday, the final battle begins. Though a mother and a noblewoman, Lyra is one of the best archers on the New Wall, an even more talented horsewoman, and a warg to boot. The battle last five moons. It’s anticlimactic for Lyra and her archers. One moment they are shooting flaming arrows and the next there’s nothing but a pile of corpses on the snow. Later on, she will learn that it was Ser Barristan, Selmy, Jon Snow, and a talented, nameless boy from Yi Ti attacking the Night King in tandem. Jon is the only one to live, though half of his face is butchered and permanently black with cold. The pain will haunt him until the end of his days.

Robb dies. His body is never found, but she knows. They all felt it. Grey Wind will turn up a week later and never leaves Lyra’s side. For all of their disagreements, Robb and Lyra were twins. Her life is never quite the same without him.

Danaerys dies as well. Arya confesses to her family that she shot an arrow through her eye the moment the corpses dropped. The Mother of Dragons was too much of a threat to Jon Targaryen and the pack protects itself.

Jon makes good on his word. He refuses to take the Iron Throne. After the worst part of rebuilding, he retreats to Dragonstone with his wildling wife. Bran follows in his footsteps. He takes up the mantle of Lord of Winterfell and marries a Dornish girl that he met in the war. Rickon and Arya do the opposite. They spend a good portion of their lives traveling together. Eventually, Rickon returns and marries a fierce Thenn girl, but Arya never settles. She says she finds her peace in adventure. In the end, she retires to Winterfell and spoils her great-nephews and nieces rotten.

After the war, Lyra and Domeric returned to Winterfell first, to aid in the relief effort. There, she gets pregnant with a set of twins named Benjen and Bethany. After the North is organized enough for Bran to take over, Lyra finally arrived at the Dreadfort for the first time. Finally, nearly ten years later, she gets what she always wanted: a northern husband and a castle to run.


End file.
